Help
by JantoJones
Summary: Illya needs help. (Written for the LJ Section VII song-fic challenge.)


There was a seven foot drop beneath Illya Kuryakin, but luckily, his hands were securely chained to the beam above him. He tried to ignore the all too familiar soreness in his back, neck and shoulders, as his latest THRUSH tormentor rambled on below. When he'd first been hung up, the Russian had kicked his shoes at his captor, scoring a direct hit on the top of her head. Unfortunately, this resulted in him being lowered, stripped to his shorts and re-hung. He was profoundly grateful they'd left him with a modicum of modesty.

Illya had been left there in the dark, for two hours; to think about the proposition he'd been given. Apparently THRUSH wanted to offer him a position in their organisation. They were of the opinion that his outstanding scientific abilities were being wasted by U.N.C.L.E., and that they would offer him anything to utilise his talents. Illya had naturally refused the offer, which is what led to him being strung up like a side of beef.

When the woman returned to her captive, she was sure he would have changed his mind; and said as much to him.

"You have obviously not heard anything of my reputation," Illya growled back at her.

"Oh, I'd heard," she replied, with a sneer on her painted red lips. "But I am very doubtful of the validity of the stories that I've been told. However, I'm not averse to trying them out; purely out of scientific curiosity of course."

As the woman launched into a litany, of what she would like to subject him to, Illya allowed his mind to drift. He idly wondered, should he live long enough, whether he would get arthritis in his wrists. He'd been suspended from them so regularly; it would stand to reason that there would be long term damage. The same went for his neck and shoulders. His mind then wandered to the thought of rescue. He'd been abducted right off the street, on his day off. There was every possibility that he wouldn't be missed until the following day. By then, it could be too late.

Illya hated being in a position where he needed help. When he was younger, he'd never needed anybody's help; in any way. He could take care of himself and get out of any sticky situation on his own. Of course, as a child, he wasn't getting taken captive every five minutes by a megalomaniacal group of criminals. These days he relied on help from his partner far more often than he was comfortable admitting.

"We can help you Mr Kuryakin." The THRUSH woman said to him, causing Illya to wonder if she was reading his mind. "We can pay you anything you want and provide you with the best labs, people and equipment."

"Until I become useless to you," the Russian retorted. "I'm sorry, but I'm one of the good guys."

"Lower him," she ordered one of the three guards in the room. "I shall leave you to soften him up for me. When you're done, put him in a cell."

MFUMFUMFUMFUMFUMFUMFUMFUMFUMFUMFUMFUMFUMFUMFUMFUMFU

The beating had lasted for twenty minutes, and though Illya had gotten a few good kicks in, he was subdued easily. When unconsciousness came, he welcomed it like an old friend. The old friend left him a few hours later when Illya woke up on a cold stone floor, and he greeted his old acquaintance, pain. He ran q quick internal audit and concluded that the damage was superficial, if painful. He was dismayed to find his hands were still chained, though thankfully at the front.

"Are you ready to submit to THRUSH Mr Kuryakin?"

"As attractive as your offer is," Illya hissed through gritted teeth. "And despite your gentle techniques of persuasion, I can't help you."

"In that case, we shall simply exploit your abilities without your co-operation."

She clicked her fingers at a guard who was holding a small wooden case. The woman opened the case and extracted a syringe.

"This is one of our new developments," she explained. "It will take four shots, administered over the next twelve hours, to make you absolutely compliant."

In spite of the chains and the agony, Illya fought like a demon against the guards. He could endure most things, but recently he seemed to be developing a phobia to needles. Just the sight of one was enough to send his blood pressure sky-rocketing and his heart rate racing.

"Come now Eee-lee-yarr, you aren't afraid of this little thing are you?" the woman cooed. "I may call you Eee-lee-yarr?"

"Only if you learn to pronounce it," the Russian snapped, defiantly.

In response to his insolence, his captor jabbed the needle into his shoulder, without any finesse. Illya immediately felt a burning sensation coursing through his system. He gasped at this new layer of torment and, instinctively, tried to roll away from it.

"I'm sorry about that Mr Kuryakin; it is an unfortunate side effect. Don't worry though, in twelve hours it won't matter to you."

The stricken agent was completely unaware of her departure. The pain from all the cuts and bruises was one thing, but now every nerve felt as though it was on fire. On top of that, his mind was beginning to feel like porridge.

"Illya," he muttered. "Ya Illya. Menya zovut Illya." _(I'm Illya. My name is Illya)_

He repeated the words over and over again. Illya could feel his mind leaving him and he was determined to cling on to one thing that truly belonged to him.

"I know your name is Illya, Tovarisch."

The American voice cut through the fog and Illya struggled to remember where he'd heard it before. He blearily gazed at the swimming face in front of him.

"Napoleon?" He shouted, grasping at the name like a lifebelt.

"Shhh. We don't want to attract any attention."

Solo released his partner form his bonds and gave him a quick check over. The bruises and swelling on the blond's face and torso made him wince in sympathy. Looking into the Russian's eyes, Napoleon could see a lot of pain, but it was also obvious he'd been drugged. The senior agent tried not to think of what the cumulative effect of the drugs they'd been given over that past few years might be.

"Can you walk?" He asked his friend.

Illya nodded his head sadly. "Though, I could use some help."

MFUMFUMFUMFUMFUMFUMFUMFUMFUMFUMFUMFUMFUMFUMFUMFUMFU

The stubborn Russian point blank refused to stay in medical, but did agree to allow Napoleon to take him home. Shivering, as the drug he'd been given metabolised, Illya gratefully accepted a glass of tea from his friend.

"How did you know I'd been taken?"

"Sylvia from archives," Solo told him. "She just happened to be nearby when you were snatched. It took us a little while to find you, but I hate to imagine what would have happened if she hadn't been there."

Illya smiled, and made a mental note to take Sylvia out to dinner to thank her.

"They were trying to get me to join THRUSH, and were somewhat put out when I refused. Thank you for rescuing me yet again."

"Any time Tovarisch," Napoleon held his glass up a toasting gesture. "Always happy to help."

The End.


End file.
